


In some dreaming state

by spooningwithisa (upriserseven)



Category: Florence + the Machine
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 07:21:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/upriserseven/pseuds/spooningwithisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU (also known as "the Asylum fic".) There's a small, blonde mystery and Florence needs to find out more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is the opening chapter of something I've been working on for a week or two. Any and all opinions are appreciated on this one!

_How do you know I’m not just a figment of your imagination?_ She’d practically cackled when the words left her mouth. She’s enjoying a twisted moment of joy, Florence thought. She’s enjoying the sick pleasure that comes from planting a seed like that in an already paranoid mind. 

They’d only interacted a few times, really, before it all happened. But they’d connected. She was sure they’d connected, she hadn’t just imagined it. She hadn’t made the whole thing up in her mind this time, she really hadn’t. She’d tried asking one of the carers, once. Asking him if he thought that blonde girl looked like she wanted to approach her. “If you’re not sure, Flossy, just leave it. She’s a little unpredictable, you know that.” 

It was in group one day that it really started. The music room would be opening up in the afternoon, they said, just to see if it’d help anybody. It was just an experiment, they said. But Florence saw blue eyes light up from the other side of the room and she felt something happen straight away. 

She’d observed her. Cautiously, at first, eventually moving closer and she found herself unable to stay away from this tiny blonde making so much noise on the keys. Averting her eyes every time she feared she may get caught, she panicked when she heard a whistle. “Oi! Oi, Red!” Florence spun around on her heel, pretending to be shocked by the acknowledgement. “C’mere.” 

And that was how it started. Her tiny blonde acquaintance had started playing a little tune and told her to sing along. It went on for a few days, until eventually the music room was opening just for the two of them. They were stopped every time Florence’s words got too dark or the music got too loud, but they got a mostly uninterrupted hour every day for a week. 

She still wouldn’t speak to her unless they were in five feet of that piano. 

It was 17 days before they had an actual conversation. “You should write this shit down, kid. There’s something beautiful going on in that fucked up little mind of yours.” 

“I don’t think anybody wants to read anything going on in here.”

“They might want to listen to it. I like listening to it, most of the time. I wouldn’t be coming in here every day otherwise, would I?”

“I don’t know your name.” That earned a smile. Maybe an almost smile, something all-knowing and not at all happy. “I mean, I suppose I don’t need to know your name, do I? It just seems… conventional.”

“Look around you. There are bars on the windows. The lid of this piano is padlocked in case I suddenly decide to pull the wires out and kill you with them. These people in here are either bouncing off the walls or haven’t moved in weeks. None of this is conventional, my love. I’m going. I need to smoke something before I go insane.” She winked at her, frowning when Florence didn’t even crack a half smile at her so-called joke. 

“Same time tomorrow?” 

“Probably. Promise me you’ll have something cool to sing. Not too weird, just cool.” 

 

She hadn’t showed up the next day. And the day after she’d made a seemingly deliberate point of sitting outside the music room, glancing inside every five minutes but never moving inside. She laughed when the door was locked at 4pm and winked at Florence, jumping up and practically running down the narrow, never-ending corridor.  
Then it was like everything was back to normal. She arrived at 2:55 and found the blonde bouncing outside, bottle of water in hand as usual. 

“That’s going to fizz.”

The only reply she got was a raised eyebrow, an incredulous glance before the bouncing stopped and the door was unlocked. The blonde skipped in first, taking her usual place on the dining chair that they were supposed to use as a piano bench. A new feeling of caution overwhelmed Florence as she walked in behind her. She wanted to ask why she’d been ignored, why she’d been left alone in a room full of instruments she didn’t know how to play, but her senses told her this would only lead to more time spent alone in this room, inexplicably longing for this unusual companionship. Or perhaps, she’d considered, simply longing for her unusual companion. 

“How do you get that, anyway? A big bottle of branded water. Why don’t you have to deal with a plastic cup full of that poisonous shit from the taps they give the rest of us?”

“My darling, I’m not sure you want to know how I get the good stuff. Not yet anyway.” She flipped her hair and gestured for Florence to come and stand beside her. “So what do you have, kid? I told you to have something cool to sing for me.”

“Why didn’t you come in here yesterday?” 

“Wasn’t feeling it. If you haven’t got anything then why are we here?”

“Dunno.” She shrugged and waited for a response of some kind, wary of what she might get. “I’ve never come in here with a plan before, have I?”

“You’re relying on it. That’s why I wasn’t here yesterday, or the day before. You’re relying on it and that’s not good for you. Hasn’t anybody told you I’m a loose cannon?” She stood up from her seat, and Florence quickly moved into the recently vacated spot, relishing the warmth that she knew could only come from another person. She watched the blonde pace the room, wondering how much quicker she could walk the length, resisting the urge to question her actual height. She was watching her legs, trying to focus or think of something to say while numbers ran through her head. Five foot 2, maybe? Something like that. She couldn’t possibly be any taller than that, could she? Why was she allowed to wear heels in this place? Even discounting the supposed risks that meant every other patient was banned from anything but flats, it was making it impossible for Florence’s brain to work.

“Why do you get to break so many rules? Really, I want to know. I want you to tell me something, anything. Why you get away with anything, where you learned to play piano, your name. Anything. You’ve never said it but I have no doubt you know about me. Go on, prove me wrong and I’ll leave you be.”

“You’re Florence. You’re Florence and you’re 26. I don’t know much about why you’re here, but you had some kind of wicked breakdown about 7 months ago. I’m the first person you’ve really spoken to, I think. You sit in group and avoid eye contact and play with your hair and I’m still not sure why you’re so anxious all the time but it intrigues me. And you, Florence? You could find out my name if you’d just work up the nerve to ask someone. Think of it as therapy.”


	2. Chapter 2

She went back to the carer she’d spoken to a few weeks ago, the one who’d told her to leave it alone. Too uncomfortable to actually speak to him, she’d simply stood and stared at him until he finally responded. 

“What can I do for you, Flossy?” He wasn’t unfriendly, so to speak, just impatient. Like he’d already anticipated the subject of her question and couldn’t be bothered to try and warn her off anymore. 

“The blonde? The little blonde in group? The one I asked you about before?” 

“Mmhm.”

“What’s her name?” He turned to face her, slowly (slower than usual, Florence thought. Was she imagining that?) and gave her what she believed to be a curious look. 

“The two of you have spent an hour together a day for almost three weeks, Flossy. You don’t know her name.”

“She won’t” How could she say this without sounding stupid? No, definitely no way. That’s the point. Go up to someone and make yourself seem like an idiot and if you get through it, you get your first reward. Combining therapy and a treasure hunt, there’s a novel idea. “She won’t tell me.” Florence stared at her feet, once again finding herself consumed by the idea that she was wearing Converse with the laces removed while there was somebody who apparently got to waltz around in stilettos at all times of the day and night.

“Are you listening?”

“Sorry, I drifted off; I was thinking about… why does she get to do whatever she wants? She wears heels and goes outside to smoke and gets branded water, for God’s sake!”   
“Start small, Florence. Her name’s Isabella. Work from there.” 

So she had something to start with. Something small, something frankly miniscule on the grand scale on things, but something to take back to her that afternoon. Something that, in all honesty, had proven Isabella’s point. 

She was leaning against the wall this time, trying so hard to look effortlessly cool that the irony made Florence laugh out loud. She had sunglasses on her head, Florence noted as she glanced out of the window at the snow falling thick and fast. A potentially straight-forward girl pretending to be a mystery. She nodded at Florence in recognition before looking her up and down.

“Do your homework?”

“Indeed I did, Isabella.”

“Nice work, kid. Isa, though. Only my therapist calls me Isabella. C’mon, you better have something ready for me today.”

“I can come up with something, I’m sure. How long are you going to call me kid? You’ve already told me you know my name.” 

“You’re relying again, kid. You’re hoping I’m going to be your new best friend and that this isn’t just a way for me to pass my time. I like playing piano, you sing a bit. Makes sense, doesn’t it?” 

“Wouldn’t hurt for you to just call me Florence. Flo, Flossy, anything. Something a bit more personal.”

“Only do personal in your music. Just sing, alright? Write something decent with me and we’ll take a step, okay? I’ll work on calling you Florence or whatever, but you have to write something worth my time. Now stand there and sing for me.”

The rest of their hour went as usual, Isa playing piano and Florence attempting to make her stream of consciousness as rhythmic as possible. Trying to sing her feelings without getting too dark, trying to express herself while still under the watchful eye of whatever member of staff was observing their session today, knowing she’d be stopped if their music moved into “inappropriate themes”. 

Florence couldn’t help but think that it should’ve changed things. That it should’ve sparked something (anything) inside them and everything would be a bit different. She’d been expecting too much from it, she knew that, she’d done exactly what Isa had told her not to. She’d expected personal. But when weeks went by with no difference, with better music but more nicknames that weren’t connections, with more mysteries and higher heels and numerous Highland Spring labels torn off and thrown on the floor, Florence found herself more and more frustrated. 

They’d been working on something, it wasn’t quite a song yet but it had some substance. It was catchy enough that Florence had heard one of the nurses humming it, and she had to admit she was a little bit proud of herself. And she was grateful, mostly, to Isabella for pushing her just enough to get her to put the words together. Grateful that there was somebody who wanted to listen to her voice, who wanted to hear her twisted poetry and seemed to genuinely believe there was some talent amongst the darkness in her mind. 

Florence wanted so desperately to verbalise this, to tell Isa the impact she’d had. To tell her that these past few weeks might have stopped her going off the rails again, had given her something else to focus on, something and someone to dream about that didn’t leave her screaming in the dead of night. She knew, though, that she risked losing it all if she ever said it out loud, that Isabella would leave again, for more than two days this time. She was relying, and she didn’t know if she wanted to shout it at Isa, or keep it locked inside her chest. 

She didn’t mean for it to all come bursting out, it just happened. She closed her eyes and tried to slam her lips shut while the words came tumbling out but nothing worked. Before she even really knew it she’d thanked her. Before she could really be aware of what she was saying, she’d managed to destroy the weeks of work, the weeks of a slow-building bond, the quiet companionship, what she’d hoped would at some point resemble a friendship, a partnership. 

“You’re not serious, Florence?” She’d so wanted to hear her name on Isabella’s tongue, but all it was all she could do not flinch at the venom it held. “You cannot be serious.   
There’s no fucking bond here. We don’t know each other, we’re not friends.” Florence opened her mouth to speak, but was quickly cut off by harsh laughter. “The fact that you really think this is any more than just two crazy people is frankly fucking ridiculous. I’m bored, I don’t have anything else to do. That’s why I’m here every day.”

“I’m not claiming we’re friends, I know better than that. I’m just saying that this? These little sessions, whatever’s been going on here? It’s helped me. I didn’t think it would. I didn’t see how it could, but it has. So no, we’re not friends, I’m not under the illusion you like me and I’m not going to have another meltdown because you don’t, I’m just saying that I feel better. I feel better for it and excuse me for wanting to thank you for that.”

“I’m not your therapist.”

“I know. I wouldn’t want you to be, you’re a fucking mess.”

“Pot. Kettle. Black.”

“I don’t want you to be my therapist. Or even my friend, if you don’t want to be. Just keep coming back here and making songs with me and pretend you’re not helping me if you need to.”

“You’re relying. I told you you would. You’ve only known me a few months and you’re basically putting all your hope of recovery on me. How do you know that’s not going to backfire on you?”

“I don’t, I suppose.”

“No, you don’t. Who the hell relies on a crazy person to stop them being crazy? How do you know I won’t make you worse? How do you know I’m not just a figment of your imagination?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has taken so long, but penultimate chapter is here!  I’m going to put a trigger warning here, for implications and undertones more than anything else, but I’m putting it here nonetheless.

It was nothing short of a miracle that Isa had returned the next day but her footwear was much more shocking. Isa glared at Florence as she stared open mouthed at her lace-free Converse.

“Seems someone’s been asking a lot of questions about me. Drawing a lot of attention to me. Thanks a bunch, kid.”

“Can’t blame me for being curious.” _Curious about so much,_ Florence thought. Top of her priority list, for now, being the reason she wasn’t sitting alone by this piano. “Why are you here?”

“Trying to get rid of me?” Florence shook her head and redirected her gaze from Isa to the tree outside of the window. She focussed on a squirrel and watched it run from branch to branch, as she considered whether or not it was ridiculous to be envious of a squirrel. Probably not.

“I never wanted to be a bird, y’know. A lot of people want to. They think it must be nice to be a bird, to be able to fly anywhere, any time. But you’re not in control of yourself. You have to fly away, season to season, controlled by the weather, by where the other birds are going, by where you can survive. The illusion is there, but it’s not freedom at all.” She sighed as the squirrel ran out of view. “I never wanted to be a bird but I feel like one. I’m here, in my cage. Singing.”

“Talk to me about it.” 

Florence brought her eyes back to Isa, who’d sat down opposite her. _Jeans,_ Florence thought, _this must be the first time I’ve seen her in jeans._

“You’ve thought about this before. There’s something in there, tell me about it.”

“You’re not my therapist, remember?” She hadn’t quite meant to scoff the words, but she couldn’t deny the satisfaction that came from the attitude she was exuding.

“No, I’m your fucking writing partner, and there’s something to this.”

“Writing partner?”

“That’s what you want, isn’t it? This twisted little therapy? You, uh, you said it was helping.” Isa seemed so unsure of herself; Florence had to stop herself from screaming her curiosities, reeling off questions about what on Earth had happened to change the girl in front of her.

“It is. I just… I don’t know, I thought it wasn’t what you wanted. That you didn’t want me to rely on it?” _On you._

“Well, I’m not going anywhere so you may as well?”

“Were you going somewhere before?”

“Talk to me about the bird, kid.”

So she talked. She talked about things she couldn’t remember expressing before, about things she had to disguise so that the supervising carer wouldn’t stop them. And when Florence had explained the bird, had explained her fixation on these small, fragile, trapped creatures, Isa jumped straight up from her position on the floor and moved to the piano, extending her hand to bring Florence with her.

“Sing it. You slaughtered this poor little creature because you feared he’d give away your pain and suffering to those you were hiding it from. This thing, this one fucking thing is your turning point, Florence. Get it all out.”

She was right, and Florence knew it. Of course she was. She always seemed to be. Florence had to admit she’d never seen that moment, that day, as her turning point. She’d hidden that day so far inside of her that she’d almost forgotten it existed. Which was ludicrous, of course. Every time she saw a bird, she heard a tweet; she dreamt of flying, she felt guilty.  

It was all there, all bottled inside her memory. There was nothing particularly noteworthy about the day on a whole, nothing special. No news, no national holiday, even the weather had been perfectly regular. Mundane, really. Perhaps that had been part of it. The weather, the town, the house, Florence, it was all just… usual. She’d been thinking about it for months, she knew that. If she analysed it carefully, she’d probably been thinking about it for years. A bird had stopped her. That time. There was no pain and no bright white light simply because of birdsong. Hearing that bird, seeing it in the corner of her eye, feeling it watch her, had all stopped her dead in her tracks. She’d felt judged, felt exposed, felt that this one creature who knew her secret had to be silenced.

  
And while Florence had never seen that day as a milestone, she knew now that it was. It had been the day that changed it all, the day that her mind had stopped being her own. She couldn’t understand how Isa had seen this immediately but it had taken her two years to even think about it again.

“Why are you here?”

“Didn’t we have this discussion already? Writing partner, fucked up therapy hour? Which, by the way, will be over soon so if you’re going to sing for me-“

“I don’t mean this room. I mean here. Why are you in here?”

“Sing for me. Open up this memory and I’ll tell you. I make a promise to you right now that you’ll know, one day. You’ll know why I’m here; you’ll know the answer to every question you’ve ever asked about me. Just sing, alright?”

Florence couldn’t know that Isa was telling her the truth. Why have faith in the promise of a loose cannon? She didn’t know if Isa would be here tomorrow, or ever again. She couldn’t really be sure that Isa wouldn’t change her mind when tomorrow came around. She supposed she couldn’t even be sure that tomorrow would come around. Florence could question why she should have faith in Isa, but she could also ask why not? Something had changed, and in all honesty she wanted to know what.

“Alright.”

_Well, I didn’t tell anyone_  
but a bird flew by   
saw what I’d done.    
He set up a nest outside   
and he sang about what I’d become.   
He sang so loud, sang so clear   
I was afraid all the neighbours would hear. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, the final chapter. I have no real summary or notes or anything witty to say. Hope you enjoy!

Florence (Flo, Flossy, whatever you want),

Hopefully you’ll get this in good condition. It’s not fucking easy to write a private letter in this place, and it’s definitely not easy to find someone stupid enough to deliver it for you. I suppose that means there’s a chance you’ll never get this, but the worst that would happen if you didn’t is that you’d just think I’d gone without telling you. I’m not saying I’d like that, but I guess it’s alright.

I told you I wasn’t going anywhere, and I know I shouldn’t have lied to you about that but I’m glad I did now. That was my last chance to get you out of yourself, to get across my point that if you make music like you should, you can get through anything. I might seem fucked up to you, but if you’d seen me before I got near a piano you’d be amazed. Hopefully I managed to make my point and you’ll keep writing. There’s a couple of books in that music room, simple “how to” things. Have a look. Or don’t. Play by ear or something; I just want you to try. Just enough to have something to go with your lyrics. My attempt at writing the sheet music for Bird Song is hidden in one of them, sing it until you feel your lungs might burst.

You had questions, I know, and I’ll try to answer as many of them as I can without doing this face-to-face. Why was I in here? This may be a surprisingly easy answer. I lost someone. Someone close to me, someone who really mattered. I don’t know if you’ve ever had to experience that, I hope not. Some people cope better than others. Some people don’t cope at all. I didn’t. I know you wanted something more in depth, but I’ve spent five years trying very hard not to dwell on this, so I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with this. I pushed people away and I got so caught up in the darkness that I couldn’t find a way out. I couldn’t even find myself.

I got myself checked in. It’s quite unusual, apparently, to subject yourself to being in that place. I know that your family got you in there in the end (your sister, wasn’t it? I’m sure I remember it being your sister.) I guess that’s why things worked a little differently for me in there, why it took a while for the staff to remember that I was just as damaged as the rest of their patients, and just as self-destructive.

As for why I got away with the things I did, I’m sorry to say it’s not more interesting than the world itself. Do things for people, with people (I’m not saying I’m proud of it, but you wanted the facts) and you can get whatever you want. I don’t want you to think I’m encouraging this. You’re a sweet girl, and it would make me sad to think that was changing, but you have to be stronger. That’s not a criticism; it’s for your own good. Don’t let people walk all over you. And favours will get you everywhere. I doubt your vices are stilettos, cigarettes and sparkling water, but figure out the luxuries you want and bargain for them. Start with a doe-eyed plea for an extra half hour at the piano, or something. If you can manage that you’re well on your way, darling.

You asked me once to tell you where I learned piano and I hope that my telling you will answer some of your unspoken questions, too. I told you I lost someone, and I can tell you now that she was a fantastic musician. I mean a really amazing talent. She spent the years I knew her trying to convince me to pick up an instrument. Any instrument, I’m sure even a recorder would have pleased her. I refused, of course, being as stubborn as I was (am – who am I kidding?) Once she was gone, I felt the urge to play rush into me. I wasn’t sure if it was guilt, or some attempt at honouring her, but I went out the next day and spent an utterly ridiculous amount of money on a piano. I soon realised I’d been attempting to replace her, to spend the time I would’ve been with her with music. The only useful action before my inability to handle the situation took over. I realised how much I’d been relying on her, on her music and the consistency of her sound, and I slowly began to replace her music with my own. And now? Now I fall asleep at night with your music playing in my head.

I dreamt about you last night. I found out just a few days ago when I’d be leaving. They tell me I’m better, that I don’t need to be here anymore. I’m torn between relief and dread. I’m excited to be back out in the world, to get outside these fences and breathe tainted London air once again, but it’s been so long since I’ve been out there that I worry about how to function in society. I’ll figure it out, I’m sure. I dreamt that you were out there with me, though. I took a small comfort in it. Even as I’m writing this, I feel that I’ll be humming the songs we wrote when things get tough. Even though you won’t be there physically, as in my dream, I’ll be keeping the things I learned with you (because honestly, our little sessions helped me more than I could possibly admit to you) with me while I get used to the big, bad world again.

I feel that I probably shouldn’t extend this invitation but when you get out of there, which I know you will, if you feel you’re in a place to, look me up. I guess this requires a full name, doesn’t it? Summers. Isabella Summers. Send me whatever it is you manage to create alone. Keep working; make sure you have something for me for when you fly out of that cage of yours. Think of it as your homework, kid.

Always,

Isa.


End file.
